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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



POEMS 



POEMS 

By 

WALTER J. DOHERTY 




19 13 



t A 2 ^1 



P 1, \ls* 



Copyright 1913 
By WALTER J. DOHERTY 



nr.T 29 1915 
©CI.A414296 



INDEX 

Page 

Dedication 11-12 

Preface 13 

Introduction 14 

The Beauty of the Morning Skies 15 

"The Sea Gull's Haunts" .....16 

The Woodland Scene .17-18 

"Winds and Waves" 19-20 

Killarney .....21-22-23 

The River Flesk and its Affluents 24-25-26 

The Ivy Green 27-28 

The Garden of Flowers... 29-30 

The Queen of Spring 31-32 

A Rainy Day 33-34-35 

"Before I Owned an Automobile" :.... 36-37 

"An Auto Ride" ... 38-39-40 

The Vacant Spot 41 

The Miser 42-43-44 

Riches Vanish .....45 

To What Man Ought to Aspire ..46 

The Inebriate 47-48 

The Emigrant 49-50 

The Pearl ..51-52 

The Wayward Boy 53-54 

The Fireside 55-56 

Christmas Memories 57-58-59-60 

7 



I N D E X — Continued 

Page 

The Retrospect 61-62 

Reminiscence of the Widower 63 

The Road Through Life ... 64-65 

Ready for the Chase 66-67-68 

The Maiden's Revenge 69-70 

Her Engagement Ring 71-72 

"Lay Me In My Little Bed" '. 73 

Motherless Child 74-75-76 

A Mother's Love a 77-78-79 

The Baby's Cry 80 

Love's Welcome 81-82 

The Orphan Boy 83-84-85 

The Vacant Parlor..... 86 

Gone, Gone Forever 87-88 

"Thoughts" 89 

"The Lord Hath Found Her Ready"... 90 

The Silent City 91-92-93-94 

The Queen of Heaven 95-96 

The Martyr 97-98 

The Martyr's Child. 99-100 

The Garden of Eden 101-102 

The Value of Time 103-104 

Today — But Not Tomorrow 105-106 

"Time Is Ever Calling Us Away" 107 

The End of the Story 108-109-110 

8 



When stars were dotted o'er the sky 
And lovers spoke a fond good-bye, 
And night had chased the day away, 
I'd sit and write my lonesome lay. 



DEDICATION 

I dedicate these poems to the "Motherless Child/' 
as I did my last to her departed mother. She entered the 
world at the time she lost the best friend she possibly 
could have on earth; no love that God ever created in 
this world can compare with the love of a mother for 
her infant, without reference to the Divine Love of Christ, 
which was a supernatural love. 

While others may give the same care and possibly 
greater, it is impossible for them to give the same love 
as that love which is essentially in a mother's heart. 

Implanted there by God, Himself, who does all 
things perfect, and which can not be equaled by any 
other. 

The mother takes the infant to her bosom and gives 
those tender caresses only possible to a mother, then holds 
it out at arm's length and with her eyes beaming with 
love and tenderness, she feasts them in the enjoyment 
of her darling. Then with a convulsive and spasmodic 
grasp she draws it to her heart, when the two little arms 
encircling the neck of its mother, with whom the essence 
of happiness on earth is found, and the sweet content- 
ment and happiness that baby shows in its face can only 
be equaled by that look of satisfaction, contentment, 
love, and happiness expressed in that of its mother — truly 
two hearts with one soul. 

Still the infant deprived of its mother never suf- 
fers the pains and anguish of heart that the child who 

11 



realizes what it has lost and which had once tasted the 
sweetness of a mother's love, when they are deprived 
of the fond caresses, their natural heritage, the privation 
of which will make such impression on their memories 
that time will never obliterate. 

W. J. DOHERTY. 



12 



PREFACE. 

In submitting these poems to my friends and all 
others into whose hands they may happen to fall, I 
will ask their kind indulgence for the brevity and in- 
completeness of their composition, as I can assure you 
they were gotten up without any design of getting into 
the literary world, as from all literary aspirations I al- 
ways held myself aloof. As my occupation for a liveli- 
hood depended upon my successful engagement in busi- 
ness, in which I have been actively engaged for the last 
thirty years, consequently I had little time and less in- 
clination to devote more than a few spare hours of my 
time to this, as to my former publication; however, if 
the kind reader can get any pleasure or benefit from the 
perusal of its contents I will feel more than compensated 
for the time that I have devoted to its composition. 

W. J. DOHERTY. 



13 



INTRODUCTION. 

Many of the beautiful verses of this book of poems 
are inspired by the presence of Mary Cecilia Gaudin, the 
child whose photograph holds such a prominent place 
among them. 

To feel deep down in one's heart their love and to 
appreciate them in their fullness we must only recall 
the fact that Mary Cecilia is the child of a Martyred 
Mother, who gave her life that her child might live. 

In the beautiful words of her grandfather, "Cecilia's 
mother was a guiding star whose light was always bright/' 
Yet Mary Cecilia never felt the divine warmth of that 
light, which was extinguished for her that she might 
live. 

May the Guardian Angel ever protect the "Mother- 
less Child" and may the child, if the call of God ever 
exacts it, be as noble and heroic in virtue as the mother 
whom she knows only through a picture. 

REV. E. F. PARK, C. M. 



14 



THE BEAUTY OF THE MORNING SKIES. 

Look at the morning sky, 

How beautiful and grand; 

How pleasing to the eye 

As it spreads o'er the land. 

See the sun-darts shining, 

Thru the nimbus shifting masses, 

With rays, thru vapors smiling, 
As over them it passes. 

Note its various hues, 

Of purple, pink and red, 

Mingled with gray and blue, 
As it spreads over head. 

Behold its floating clouds, 

Scarce moving thru the space, 

As if they feared to wake 

The slumbering human race. 

Thus enters gentle day, 

As soft as opening flowers 

That know not the sun's rays 
Beneath some shady bowers. 



15 



'THE SEA-GULL'S HAUNTS." 

High above the foaming waves 

Hangs the rocks with sea-foam white 

Spray which penetrates its caves 

And glistens in the morning light. 

Nesting place for sea-gulls wild 
As they dip to meet the foam, 

In their graceful forms mild 
Happy in their stormy home. 

Lightly toying with the waves 

Or resting on its stormy crest, 

Hidden from the sun's bright rays 
Up among their rustic nests. 

Rocks that stood the tempest's blast, 

And the fury of the storm, 
As the breakers hurry past, 

Ne'er inflicting on them harm. 

Boundaries of the land and sea, 

Further ne'er of them shall go, 

There their limits both shall be 
For the Lord hath fixed it so. 



16 



THE WOODLAND SCENE. 

In the beautiful woodland 
In the spring of the year, 

Where the song of the wildbird 
Resounds thru the air. 




17 



And the wild flowers in clusters 
Grow thick in the shade, 

Or hang neath the bushes 
Along the green glade. 

Where the moss on the bank 
Of the clear running stream, 

Or the Lillies grow rank 
Decked in yellow and green. 

And the bees seek the nectar 
From the flowers that abound, 

Which Nature doth scatter 
All over the ground. 

And the acquatic tribe 
As they swim thru and fro, 

Neath the rushes, they glide, 
As they stand in a row. 

And the waters, they sparkle 

In the silvery light, 
Or the clouds, like a mantle, 

Obscure them from sight. 

But whether in sunlight, 
Or clouds they appear, 

The scene to my memory 
Shall ever be dear. 



18 



"WINDS AND WAVES." 

God with His great big fan that makes such mighty sound. 
And spreads the dust with every gust it blows upon the 

ground ; 
In winter time it blows a chime from the cold and frozen 

region, 
Where the natives crawl in an icy ball and stay thru-out 

the season. 

Where the seals abound as there they're found when 

they break the ice for breathing, 
And they sport and play on a winter's day without any 

fear of freezing, 
But the Polar Bear, they greatly fear when looking for 

his supper, 
And the Esquimaux, an artful foe, he being an expert 

hunter. 

But the wind still blows as the waves arose upon the 

mighty billows, 
And the ships were toyed as along they glide tho their 

spars were bent like willows; 
But the seaman's hSart, like the captain's mart, was ever 

true and guiding, 
Tho the ship was tossed as each roller passed upon which 

it was riding. 

19 



And the winds still blow across the bow as they hear its 

lonesome wailing, 
But they speed their way, both night and day, from danger 

ne'er recoiling, 

When the winter's blast of the voyage is past and they 

reach the Southern waters, 
Where the typhoon's force oft' strews the coast with 

the debris that it scatters. 

There they find a home no more to roam, nor seek for 

more excitement, 
But take their rest and think they're blest midst easy 

quiet enjoyment, 
But still they find that fate is kind that brought them 

thru such winter, 
For the earth is bound with frozen ground, tho 'tis 

warmer in the center. 

In a sheltered cove where the wind ne'er blows to dis- 
turb our peaceful living, 

And our life is spent amidst content, it's there we should 
be willing 

To spend our days 'neath summer rays, beneath a blue 
sky smiling, 

Where we rest supine 'midst bliss sublime in that easy 
mode reclining. 



*&• 



20 



KILLARNEY, 

Killarney, the beautiful, that lives in song and story, 
And nestles in the valley, near those lakes; 
Thy mountain tops thru summer are still hoary 
And thou crowned thyself forever more with glory, 
There the stranger's ever welcome at thy gates. 




Killarney, where the voices are resounding, 
Which are spoken like a whisper neath the shade; 
And you'll hear a hundred voices there resounding 
That proceedeth from the mountains there abounding. 
You'd think it was some mighty cannonade. 



21 



There the mountains are half covered with green verdure 
In the summer, which denotes the time of year, 
And the river banks are lined with ash and elder 
While their boughs are bending low, as they are tender, 
With the birds that make sweet music in the air. 

There the ivy's clinging close upon those cloisters, 
Where the sainted Monks did chant their evening prayer; 
In those ruins we fancy still we hear their voices, 
And our souls within us still, it seems, rejoices, 
For their memories to our thoughts are ever dear. 

In those abbies where those warriors now are resting, 

Who fought and died to save the very same, 

As they gave their lives and blood while there conflicting, 

As for their rights they ever were insisting, 

They'd rather bleed and die than live in shame. 

Tho their bodies are now mouldering in the shadow, 
And nourish grass and trees which there abound; 
Our time will come to follow them tomorrow, 
As we cannot stretch our lives, or even borrow, 
And human life is like an empty sound. 

In those waters where the fish are ever swimming 
As they sport themselves beneath those gentle waves, 
And those fresh winds from the mountains, ever bringing 
Those soft notes from birds and bees, there ever hum- 
ming, 
Helps us to forget and lay aside our many cares. 

22 



Oh, Killarney, most beautiful, no artist can embellish, 
Nor poet can depict thy worthy praise, 
But thy memory, in our hearts, we'll ever cherish, 
And will keep them sacred there lest they should perish, 
Like the waterfalls that beautify thy lovely shady ways. 



THE RIVER FLESK AND ITS AFFLUENTS. 

The clear river Flesk with its woodlands and valleys, 
That starts in the mountains and runs to the lakes; 

On the bank of which grows the drooping young sallies 
And makes memorable those mountains from which 
its name it takes. 

It's fed on its course by the springs so refreshing, 
That winds their way down from the nearby foot-hills; 

And their cool limpid waters that run down so gushing 
As they flow on their way to replenish the rills. 

There the water-cress hangs on its sides in large clusters, 
Or floats on its surface by the eddies' mild flow, 

And the playful young lambs skip around in their gam- 
bols, 
Or crop the young blades on its sides which there grow. 

It flows by a cottage set up on a hillside, 

Surrounded by trees which obscure it from view, 
Where the blackbird and thrushes would sing in the 
eve-tide 
Their sweet notes so clear from the tops where they 
flew. 

It flows on to mingle with waters that's noted 
For legions of those who at one time held sway, 

And on its clear surface had hunted or boated, 

And around it, it seems, they would still like to stay. 

24 



There was the O'Donohue, the once noted chieftan, 
Who passed from this earth many centuries ago, 

But now every seventh year he still is seen riding 
Upon a gray horse towards the Gap of Dunloe. 

Tho gone from this earth, he still would return 
To visit those lakes where beauties ne'er fade; 

Its grandeur so attracts as to make him sojourn 
And tempt a dead man to get out of his grave. 




The dead loves to linger around its enchantments 
And glide fairy-like all around its cascades; 

And those legions but serve for its greater enhancements, 
Which adds song to the beauty of those colonnades. 

25 



Those water-falls, famed for their majestic grandeur, 
Which is lined on each side with the arbutus trees, 

Which flourish and grow in that green land of wonder, 
That tourists who view it drop down on their knees. 

What beauties are given this earth which shall perish 
And only appear a short while, then they fade, 

But still while we live here their memories we'll cherish, 
And their fond recollections we'll take to the grave. 



26 



THE IVY GREEN. 

The ivy green that creeps and clings 

With a most tenacious grasp, 
And sticks the closer to those ruins 

Thru winter's blighting blast, 
With leaves of dark and shining green 

So fresh when other vines 
Lay withered in the ground, unseen, 

While the church bells ring their chimes. 

It starts, a small and feeble plant, 

And sinks its roots, unheeded, 
To the foundations of those towers, 

As if it had been needed; 
Upward it shoots with might and power, 

To stretch its arms around, 
And takes a hold where e'er it grows, 

As its roots do under ground. 

It extends around each vaulted dome, 

Its tendrils ever spreading, 
As if to keep each sacred home 

Their secrets there from telling; 
It cheers and brightens up the scene, 

As if it alone were left 
To keep their memories ever green, 

Who 'neath those shades have slept. 

It holds incased within its folds 

As if to shield from view, 
Those stately conquerors of time 

That other ages knew. 

27 



Those vine-clad walls which histories tell, 

And tradition off recalls 
The prowess of the men who fell 

Beneath those stately walls. 

It gives back to those ancient walls 

What it received from them, 
While clinging 'round those vacant halls, 

That now are dark and dim ; 
They bind each crack that doth appear 

With its increasing strength 
And keeps them safely in its care, 

And binds each broken rent. 

And thus it is, the ivy gives 

Back what it once has taken, 
It binds them with its life and strength, 

To keep them from being shaken. 



*!* 



Zb 



THE GARDEN OF FLOWERS. 

The garden of flowers with its nice shady bowers 

In their matchless variety of colors; 
There is pink, white and red, that grows in each bed, 

And an endless diversity of others. 




There's the Hyacinth that grows in the shade of the rose, 
Tho in springtime they both bloom together; 

And the Dahlias are found as it were a background, 
Which in beauty all vie with each other. 

With the Hollyhock tall that grows by the wall 
Which looks like some maiden neglected; 

While the Tulip so red that holds up its head, 
As if for its rights it contested. 

29 



There's the Carnation Pink from which fragrance we 
drink, 

And the Cox-Comb which weak ones would smother; 
And the Sweet Williams fair that perfume the air, 

And the Lily that looks like no other. 

There's the Snow-Drop that burst the earth's frozen crust 
As it peeps from beneath its white cover; 

And the Chrysanthemum in fall which is the hardiest 
of all, 
But of its beauty, I still am no lover. 

There's the flower called Sow-Bread that hangs down its 
head, 

And for fragrance is excelled by few others, 
And it cures many ills with the juice it distills, 

Which affects little sisters and brothers. 

And the Fuchsia it flowers as o'er others it towers, 
But is crowned by the bright Morning Glories, 

Which grows o'er them all as it trails by the wall, 
To the first, second, third, and fourth stories. 

And the green Mignonette that sweetens the breath, 
When the soft dews descend from the heaven; 

And the Passion Flower red that hangs down its head, 
With the hammer and nails that were driven. 

And the Bleeding Hearts bend with each puff of the wind, 
As they hang by a stem long and slender, 

And the red drops of blood that hang from each bud, 
While its significance we e'er shall remember. 



THE QUEEN OF SPRING. 

Whence comest thou, Oh Queen of the Spring! 
What pleasures and comforts along dost thou bring; 
What visions of beauty so rare have you seen, 
In what wonderful lands, since you left, have you been? 

What news have you brought since we parted last year, 
What friends have you left or what grief did you hear; 
What sighs when you parted to come to our shore, 
What visions of fancy brought you here once more? 

What hopes of the future, what thoughts of the past, 
Or do you wish to recover the time you have lost; 
Do you wish to revisit the friends you have known, 
Or for your long absence just come to atone ? 

You have seen all the flowers in the meadows so green, 
And heard birds' sweet music that enchanted the scene, 
Or the bleating lambs as they skipped and played, 
When all nature in beauty was just arrayed. 

You have seen the spires where the swallows nest 
High above the crowds where they could rest; 
Or maintain the struggle that the sparrows waged, 
Which for its existence it is now engaged. 

On the snow white caps of the mountains high, 
Which you passed in haste without looking nigh ; 
As they know not of the joys you bring 
In thy yearly visits, thou Queen of Spring. 

31 



Since we parted the bird has built its nest 

As you left the east for the golden west; 

What regions of snow have you passed with a smile 

As you hurried along not thinking worth while 

To bestow them a visit, tho winter was o'er, 
But still tho you passed them they missed you the more; 
What visions of Empire have you seen on your way, 
What struggles of arms as each strove for the day? 

What visions of woe, of grief and of pain 
Have followed you 'round or encamped on your trail ; 
You have seen Empires fall while Republics instead, 
Like some giant, step on the graves of the dead. 

And crushed out forever the power that remained 
In the hands of the man, who as emperor had reigned; 
And the "Sick Man of Europe" who once terrified 
All the nations of earth — you were there when he died. 

And the stain was washed out which for centuries en- 
dured 
By the countries surrounding, so their peace was insured; 
What else have you seen, as we're anxious to know 
The wonders that occur in the places you go? 

You have missed the many who were here last year, 
But now have passed from this life of care, 
And when you make your next year's round, 
Some, here at present, will not be found. 



32 



A RAINY DAY. 

Twas cold and damp and the rain was beating 
On the window panes while we were eating, 
And the curling smoke came rolling down 
Upon the street as with a frown, 

While the children cuddled around the room 
And hoped it would stop raining soon ; 
While the hen beneath her spreading wings 
Gave shelter to her nestlings. 

The ducks, they quack the more for joy, 
And with open bills looked towards the sky, 
As if to catch the drops that fell 
And smacked as if they tasted well. 

Beneath a branch of naked wood 
The chickens for protection stood, 
As if that slender twig o'er head 
Would make for them a sheltered shed. 

Like the ostrich, when his head he'd hide, 
Fancies no trouble can him betide; 
The birds had ceased to fly the air, 
And stood in clusters as in fear. 

While the family dog that was so kind 
Lay in the corner where he whined, 
And would not even wag his tail, 
But blinked and shivered as tho he'd ail. 

33 




A RAINY DAY. 



The hawk that seeks his living prey 
Was nowhere to be seen that day; 
Even the bird within the cage 
Stood silent as if stiff with age, 

But yet the rain came pouring down, 
Which still intensified the gloom, 
And nature all had seemed upset 
As everything was dripping wet. 

The husbandman alone felt glad 
As his crop prospects had been bad; 
And as the drops fell on the ground 
They seemed sweet music, every sound. 

And thus we see what we most dread 
Is what we're often most in need, 
Nor can we much success attain 
Without the disagreeable rain. 




35 



"BEFORE I OWNED AN AUTOMOBILE." 

Before I owned an automobile, 

I, like most other folks, 
Should dodge around from 'neath the wheels, 

Or get mixed up in the spokes. 

No more with safety could I tread, 
But was forced to dodge with scorn, 

And had to pick my steps in dread 
When I heard the tooting horn. 

They came around from every side, 

They drove both left and right, 
As if none else should walk or ride, 

But should get out of sight. 

They e'er flew past me with a toot, 

Like a demon of the night, 
And with their two bright glaring eyes 

Deprived me of my sight. 

My shoes were worn in such strife, 

And leather was so high, 
For I should run to save my life 

When they came tooting by. 

It takes so much for cushion seats, 

No common stuff will do, 
And when the back and sides are lined 

There is none left for the shoe. 

36 



My days of peace and quietude, 
Like the horse, had passed away, 

And I, too, had to step aside 

While they speeded on their way. 

I almost cursed the day I lived 
To see such an invention, 

And wished they all were gone below- 
To a place I will not mention, 

But then I found it would not do 
To waste my life in thinking, 

So got an automobile, too, 
And put other people blinking. 

No more in dread I drive the streets, 
Nor wear my shoes in walking; 

I care not whom I chance to meet, 
And leave others do the talking. 

I drive around from town to town, 
The distance seems inviting, 

And if a tire perchance go down, 
The trouble is but trifling. 

I like to drive a car so well 

That I even got another, 
And nearly killed a "City Swell/' 

And ran over another. 

The "Auto Bug" has come to stay, 
E'en tho some may dislike it; 

The faithful horse has had his day, 
But now has got to "hike" it. 

37 



"AN AUTO RIDE." 

One morning, for a pleasure ride, we took an automobile, 

With leisure, time and confidence, we set up to the wheel ; 

The day was pleasant, bright and cool, we knew the dis- 
tance well; 

But e'er we've time to reach our goal — the result is hard 
to tell. 

We start with confidence and pride, the car is of the best, 
We leave no other pass us by, as if for time we're 

pressed. 
We note few objects on the road, they pass us by in 

haste, 
And as we grazed the passing teams, of fright, they had 

a taste. 

We took the steepest hills on "high," and sped up to 

the top, 
And then we heaved a little sigh, as we just had missed 

a "gap;" 
We still kept up the same quick pace, as we descended 

down the hill, 
But all at once we struck a rut, and there we were stuck 

still. 

The radiator sprung a leak, the cause we did not know, 
But nevertheless we soon found out, the thing it would 

not go; 
We tried by all the means we had to designate the cause, 
But we could not succeed at all to change mechanical 

laws. 

38 



The engine, it got heated and would not run a wheel. 
But after it got cold like us, we tried another "reel;" 
So happy on our way we sped, as we were still re- 
joicing, 
For woods and hills and valley lands, such scenery was 
enticing. 

The sky commenced to darken and the clouds began to 

roll, 
And soon the rain came pouring down and filled up 

every hole ; 
The creeks and branches all were full and running o'er 

the top, 
And when we struck the same in haste we made a mighty 
gap. 

Such exercise, it made the flush of red upon our face, 
And tho we had to face the rain we still kept up the 

pace. 
We passed a little village where the people looked 

amazed, 
And had to make a sudden stop, as a cow we neatly 

grazed. 

The poor old sleepy "Bossy Cow," she seemed not yet 

awake, 
But still, so we could save ourselves, we should put on 

the brake; 
The change, it made such sudden stop, it caused the 

car to twitch, 
Which nearly put us scrambling into a nearby ditch. 

39 



But accidents will off occur when we take a pleasure 

ride, 
For when we look behind the scene we see the other 

side ; 
So all thru life we find the sweet is mixed up with the 

bitter, 
We went to meet a pretty girl, but somehow failed to 

get her. 

That ride is like the trip thru life, where all is insecure, 
For tho we start with confidence, the pace we don't 

endure ; 
There are obstacles so many that cross us on our way, 
And worse than all we find some who would lead our 

minds astray. 




40 



THE VACANT SPOT. 

That vacant spot that causes anguish, 
That causes sorrpw, causes pain, 

Which many vainly try to banish 
And which none would wish to retain. 

Its presence always is unwelcome, 
As it forebodes for him much care; 

But from his brain it lifts a burden, 
But still he'd rather it were there. 

It leaves a spot so smooth and shiny, 
Old Bachelors have for it great fear; 

When they incline toward matrimony 
They'd much prefer it were not there. 

For some betimes he feels uneasy 
As oft' his hand he passes o'er 

That vacant spot so smooth and greasy — 
That even looks as tho 'twere sore. 

But still 'twill keep in joy and sorrow, 
For as each night he'd go to bed, 

He'll hope to rise again tomorrow 
But still he'll have that same bald head 



41 




THE MISER. 

The world is made for all to dwell in, 
For all to seek for wealth and peace; 

Not that we all should make a million, 
For if we did we'd never cease. 



The more we have, the more we covet, 
It seems to be the price of greed; 

No miser ever knew contentment, 

As gold, like pestilence, seems to breed. 

42 



The seeds, they grow despite his reason, 
And avarice clings the more with age, 

It grips him in and out of season, 
It crosses his path at every stage. 

His heart grows callous with constant brooding, 

He knows no pity for his kind, 
No tales of want are to him appealing, 

As to such things he's ever blind, 

For avarice never had a limit, 

It- only figures the per cent; 
And of the means whereby they bring it, 

The interest on the money lent. 

The widow and the orphan never 

See the inside of his purse; 
"Where charity many sins would cover/' 

The miser's avarice brings a curse. 

His family, tho they once were loving, 
And liked the comforts here of life, 

Were so constrained by constant goading 
That all had left him but his wife. 

And she, poor wretch, whose health was failing, 
And want seemed stalking at her door, 

She's poor, tho wealth at her is railing, 
But still the miser wants the more. 

But life from her at last is taken, 
The only thing, it seems, she had; 

But still, the miser, old and shaken, 
Clings the closer to his wad. 

43 



At last he finds himself forsaken, 
And growing morose, he now is old; 

As one by one his friends are taken 
And he is left only his gold. 

But gold, it will not last forever, 
As to its efficacy we are in doubt; 

For in hell it is no legal tender, 
There gold, it will not pay him out. 



4* 



44 



RICHES VANISH. 

The rich man of today is the poor of tomorrow. 
As he lives in joy, he'll die in sorrow, 
While now his every wish is granted, 
But then his memory will be taunted. 

The riches which he once enjoyed 
And his own pleasure ne'er denied, 
Shall rise in phantoms to his eyes, 
And their worthlessness he will despise. 

And see how vain and foolish he 
Who spends his life in frivolity, 
That money which he loved so well, 
For which his soul he fain would sell. 

Is now as dross or worthless mire, 
And would not buy him one desire; 
It leaves him naught but memories' grief, 
Which never brings the soul relief. 

With riches he was overweening, 
But never kind or condescending. 
Alas! How poor must riches be 
Which can from us so easily flee. 

For riches are but like a dream 
That to our shadowy vision seem, 
As thru the glimmer of the night 
They come and vanish from our sight. 

45 



TO WHAT MAN OUGHT ASPIRE. 

Thou Man who is born to trouble and pain, 
Thy sorrows shall follow thee e'er on thy trail, 
Who in thy life, from the cradle even to the grave, 
Shall never attain nor possess what thou crave. 

When youth is upon thee, thou art wishing for age, 
But never content while passing that stage; 
If to wealth thou aspire and chance to attain, 
And glory and honor alone be thine aim. 

Or to power and dominion be what thou aspire, 
Or quiet and seclusion be thy sole desire, 
Or travel extended in quest of new seas — 
E'en tho thou hadst found them thou wouldst not be 
at ease. 

For they are all transitory, passing and vain, 

And tho thou hadst found them, what would be thy 

gain? 
Man grasps at a shadow with the substance in sight 
And cannot discern the day from the night. 

The wealth of this world that we've got today, 

And we know not but tomorrow may be taken away; 

But the Goods that ne'er perish and are now in our 

reach 
Are the ones we should strive for, pray and beseech. 

Thou art destined for something more noble and grand 
Than the joys of this world and the wealth of the land; 
While thy body of dust to earthly things may aspire, 
The "Breath of the Lord," thy soul, should but God 
desire. 

46 



THE INEBRIATE. 

Oh! What an awful fate awaits 
The foolish man who spends 

The money he should keep at home 
With his many so-called friends. 

The man who spends his leisure hours, 
Or wastes his precious time, 

Is sure, for it, to suffer, 
As it is an awful crime. 

The man who looks into the glass 

And drinks it to his fill, 
And empties his own pockets 

To fill the barroom till. 

The Toper that deceives himself 

With vain imaginations, 
And makes a bosom friend of all, 

As if they v/ere relations. 

Tho in dire want and poverty, 
And hunger is at his door, 

He spends his money freely 
With those not known before. 

He thinks not of the future, 

Nor sorrov/s for the past, 
Altho' he knows not whether 

That drunk shall be his last. 

47 



His thoughts are all awhirl, 
His mind, it gets confused; 

He thinks he's worth a million 
Or fancies he's abused. 

The sot would tell of wonders 

That he has never done, 
But of his many blunders, 

He never mentions one. 

His faithful family, left bereft, 
Gets but a passing thought; 

He takes to them what he has left, 
Which generally is but nought. 

The inebriate, that reeling form, 

An object of contempt 
That elicits but a look of scorn, 

Or one of resentment. 

The "sot" becomes degraded 
In his own and others' eyes, 

And it seems as if it's doubtful 
If he ever more shall rise. 



*«* 



48 



THE EMIGRANT, 

Away from the home of his early youth* 

To strange and foreign lands, 
Where wealth and station he had sought, 

And gold from the washing sands, 

He dreamed of countries far away, 
Where the fields were ever green, 

And he had heard some people say 
The wonders they had seen. 

He dreamed of mansions neatly parked 

'Neath stately oaks and ashes, 
Thru shady walks and winding paths 

Where the turbulent water washes. 

He owned a villa in the plains 

Decked in artistic beauty, 
Midst ripening crops of golden grains, 

To ride o'er which was his pleasant duty. 

He saw the sportive fish arise 

There in the waters splashing; 
And all those things he did surmise, 

But such joys, they were not lasting. 

He walks the streets both cold and hot, 
In quest of some employment, 

And even then he found it not, 
Such was his sole enjoyment. 

49 



He looks each stranger in the face 

As if seeking recognition, 
But still he has to keep his pace, 

And seek out some position. 

He meets some others of his fate, 
Who wind their way as slowly, 

Whose disappointment was as great 
And had dreams, Oh! just as lofty. 

And thus it is we often find 
The rainbow that we follow 

Was worse than that we left behind, 
And we gain naught else but sorrow. 




50 



THE PEARL, 

The pearl of the mountains, 

The pearl of the plains, 
The pearl of the valley, 

Which we seek for earthly gains. 

The pearl of the oyster, 

Which is found upon the sea, 

The pearl of the household, 
She is the pearl for me. 

She is the dearest pearl, 

The one we most admire, 
And to make each household happy, 

It is her sole desire. 

The pearl of the family, 

She is loving, kind and true, 

She seeks no compensation 
For the noble work she'd do. 

She is the only pearl 

That's worth the name at all, 
She is the pride of every circle, 

Whether big or small. 

She ornaments the parlor, 

Without her it is bare; 
She is a little sunbeam 

Shining everywhere. 

51 



With her little dangling tresses 
Of gold, or raven hair, 

That falls in lovely ringlets 
O'er a face so fair. 

She is the fairy spirit, 
The comfort of the home, 

But seldom gets the merit 
That's due to her alone. 




52 




PlAftbMA^i 



THE WAYWARD BOY. 
53 



THE WAYWARD BOY. 

Raised in luxury and ease, 
Knew not any want or care, 

Ever had been hard to please, 
Never known to take a dare. 

Petted at his mother's knee, 
Ever wanted his own way, 

Spoiled to even a degree, 
Wanted from his home to stray. 

Never would he go to school, 
Rather stay at home and play ; 

Always went against the rule, 
Tho he was sprightly and gay. 

Sought the boys the most perverse, 
Never to his sisters kind, 

Always had been the reverse, 
Never was he known to mind. 

Never had been kind to pets, 
Altho somewhat rather shy, 

Never had the least regrets 
For he was a wayward boy. 



54 



THE FIRESIDE, 

One place that man sought 
And which he so dearly prize, 

The pride of his heart 
And the light of his eyes. 

His hopes of the future, 
His thoughts of the past, 

Where he first saw life's pleasures 
And he would fain spend his last 

It follows his memory 

In triumphs of war, 
Altho it be distant 

It shines from afar. 

No clouds can obscure it, 

Nor make it look dim, 
For no matter how lowly 

It is sacred to him. 

Tho honors be nigh 

And laid at his feet, 
And men seem to vie 

For the privilege to greet. 

And riches abound, 

Of which he never thought 
And friends there surround 

Him which he never sought. 

55 



With mirthful companions 
Who meet at his board 

Or dependents obedient 
Whose law is his word. 

But no matter what glory, 
No matter what power 

That man may acquire, 
There at last comes an hour 

When life is declining 
And the fires of his youth 

Are commencing to flicker 
As in time they will do it. 

Then his memory will wander, 
As he'd wish to betide 

And sit quietly and ponder 
By his own fire-side. 




56 




CHRISTMAS MEMORIES. 



A man young in life 

Who knew naught of care, 
Till he took him a wife 

As some young men dare. 

And raised up a family, 
Who in their tender years 

Rejoiced in their pleasures 
And grieved at their tears. 

At each coming season 
When the birds migrate 

And the holly and ivy 
Are hung o'er the grate. 

57 



And the children assembled 

There to celebrate 
The feast-day of Christmas, 

Then their joy, it was great. 

And each coming year 

As they'd anticipate 
The advent of Christmas 

They could hardly wait. 

For that is the season 
That bringeth good cheer, 

Altho it be winter, 
That time of the year. 

But as they had grown 

Some had drifted away, 
And had sought a new home 

As they all could not stay. 

And e'er he had known 
How quickly they grew 

They all had left home, 
And there was left but the two. 

Then he'd see in dim vision, 

With memories light 
Those scenes in revision, 

Tho dim to his sight. 

And he'd wander in fancy 
Thru the past distant maze, 

While he whispers to Nancy 
Of happier days. 

58 



When the childish young prattle 

Delighted their ears 
And relieved of life's burdens 

The weight of its cares. 

He'd sit and review 
With his wife by his side, 

As there was but the two 
And no child left to chide. 

Their children then scattered 
Would seem to appear 

And they lived life there over 
With loved ones so dear. 

They see baby crawling 

Along on the floor, 
While Willie was hanging 

His sock near the door. 

And Lucile was watching 
With raptured delight 

And all was preparing 
For Christmas Night. 

And May, as she stood 
With her stocking near by, 

Which she knew would be filled 
For her bye and bye. 

And their youth was renewed 
By one glimpse of the past, 

And they all were in fancy 
Re-united at last. 

59 



Our lives they are sad, 

Even when at the best, 
Tho it is not so bad 

When we have no regrets. 

When the children are flown 
Like the bird from its nest, 

And they grow up and scatter 
North, South, East, and West. 

And some that are gone 

To the visions of bliss, 
But those are the ones 

Most whose presence we miss. 

Tho with them we were buried 
Deep down in the ground, 

For wherever our treasure 
There our heart shall be found. 

When the vision is past 

And the dark shades of night 
Leaves their memories a blank, 

And there's no spot of light, 

Then the old are left lonely, 

As they are bereft, 
And they look but to death, 

Where they hope for a rest. 



60 



"THE RETROSPECT." 

Oh, think of the past, the dreary past, 
Of the pleasures that wafted by, 
Of the memories that shall ever last 
Until the day we die. 

Of the loving friends we used to know 
In our young and childhood days, 

And those with whom we used to go, 
Now we've got but memories' rays. 

The past is always dreary, 

When we think of the chances lost, 
When we think of the dear loved ones 

Whose eternal die is cast. 

When we think of the loving wife so kind, 
And the children's smiles so sweet, 

As they now arise before our mind 
As when they ran for us to greet. 

We remember well, the toddling feet, 

As each year rolled around, 
We watched them grow with such delight 

And was of them so proud. 

But now there is nought but memories left, 

As they are grown and gone; 
And we are left alone bereft, 

But it wont be for long. 

61 



The past, it brings but sorrow, 
As it's filled with vain regrets; 

For from it we cannot borrow, 
Nor with it pay our debts. 

There is so much we might have done, 

But time we can't recover, 
Of victories which might have been won, 

But now are lost forever. 




62 



REMINISCENCE OF THE WIDOWER, 

Alone by my fireside, I rest here tonight, 

With no one to sit by my side, 
To return love glances that once met the sight 

Of her who had once been my bride. 

On her youthful fond charms my thoughts love to dwell, 

When we were both happy and gay, 
And all her love whispers I remember so well 

Which she spoke on that bright wedding day, 

Alone do I sit and remember the past, 

Like a stranger in some foreign land, 
And now I perceive what perfection I lost 

Which before I could not understand. 

How dreary I sit and recount, all alone, 

The days that have long passed away, 
And no matter how sorry, we cannot atone 

For the slightest harsh word we may say. 

For age gets more lonesome and friends get more scarce 

As we pass from the zenith of life, 
And as we journey nearer to the end of our race 

We sigh for the loss of a wife. 

The mother who raised us, her love was most dear, 
And the sisters who brightened our life, 

But no one could cherish or comfort or cheer 
Like the one that we took for a wife. 

63 



THE ROAD THRU LIFE. 

The road I traveled so weary and long 

With its many and meandering ways, 
When the streets were rough and the night was dark, 

And there was no note from the singing lark, 
In my early childhood days. 

While we traveled thru the dismal dark, 
Where the path of life beset with snares, 

And the mist was thick, and our frail bark 
Would toss about like Noah's Ark, 

With our many numerous cares. 

In that lonely road where many stray, 

As they journeyed on thru life, 
And the careless often lose their way, 

As they do not know the night from day, 
In this, our earthly strife. 

Where the weary travel on the road, 

And feel its burdens great, 
As they drag along their weary load 
Upon this earth, now their abode, 
According to their state. 
64 



When we the last mile-post have passed 

And feel the ills of age, 
And find our life is fading fast, 

As we know it cannot always last, 
Nor our ills can we assuage. 

I've traveled nearly to the end 
Midst pleasure, grief and pain, 

Sometime I break a weakened link 
As all my energies were bent, 

Or stretched it with the strain. 

For what is life that we should strive, 
Or gold, for which we'd perish ; 

They are only bands that bind the soul 
And worldly goods which we extol, 

But which we should not cherish. 

When we find life passing fast away, 
We should make a last attempt 

And try, at last, to reach the Goal, 
For if we only save our soul 

We shall ever be content. 




65 



READY FOR THE CHASE. 

How proud she stands and steady, 
With a grey-hound at each side, 

As she casts her eyes so dreamy 
O'er the prairie long and wide. 




With health and pleasure beaming 
Upon her youthful face, 

And eyes with fire there gleaming, 
Just ready for the chase. 

How nobly and how nervous 
Those dogs await each sound, 

Ever ready at her service 
To course the country round. 

66 



Ready stands the prancing steed 
Crunching at the bits that bind him, 

Neither spur nor whip doth need, 

But steady hand and nerves to guide him, 

Noble game of lightning speed, 
Thou art matched for nimblest hounds, 

Or the fleetest equinal breed, 
Thou canst lead with mystic bounds. 

Dauntless dost thou lead the chase, 
Awakened from thy sheltered lair, 

In each movement marked by grace 
Of thy form so soft and fain 



BUDf FOIWAE CMASE 



ix 



Where thy equal to be found, 
Nor for thy size none doth excell ; 

Fearless of the ravenous hounds 
And their e'er approaching yelL 



67 



Tho they sometimes chance to gain 
So near thou feel their baying breath, 

As thy every muscle strain 
To keep from out the jaws of death. 

Agile creature of the west, 

In thy quiet sequestered habit, 

O'er the prairies' trackless waste 
Dwells the Texas coy Jack-Rabbit. 



68 



THE MAIDEN'S REVERIE. 

Thou maiden forlorn whose beautiful face 
Adds luster and romance to that quiet country place; 
Your pose is so charming you seem there so calm 
As you rest on yon fence by the aid of your arm. 

With your great dog beside you, he seems your lone 

friend, 
But your heart seems to break, which his love cannot 

mend, 
In that calm summer morning with the corn in silk 
And all its soft grains are swelling with milk. 

Tho you glance at them thoughtful with a look far away 
It's plain your mind wanders to some future day 
To scenes and surroundings far distant from now, 
As you sigh not for milk of the corn or cow. 

But you long for the love of some noble mind 
Who would be to you loving, constant, and kind, 
For such is your longing, you'll not be content, 
Without which your life you would count it misspent. 

For you there's no pleasure in farm or field, 
Tho the crops which are sown show a bountiful yield, 
And the meadows in blossom, sweet scented with flowers, 
Have no power to shorten your long weary hours. 

69 



Tho friends of your childhood you'll not soon forget, 
Your thoughts are of someone you never have met. 
He is your ideal created in your own mind, 
For it ever has been so with Eve's female child. 

You've fashioned his habits to suit your own taste — 
You have given him love, enough and to waste; 
For your love you don't need it, it is no good to you, 
It's but held for another, so what else could you do 

But surrender that love you hold but in trust? 
Tho you yet may surrender that love to the worst, 
It behooves you be careful for when once you decide 
You should bind your decision and with it abide. 




70 



HER ENGAGEMENT RING. 

How pleased there she looks and how happy 
As she holds up her hand to one side, 

And she looks at the ring on her finger 
Which betokens she'll soon be a bride. 

She looks at it close, 'tis a diamond, 
She thinks from the luster it throws, 

And 'twas placed on her finger by Raymond, 
For he came there that day to propose. 

She looks at it close to examine 
As she turns each way to the light 

To see if its cut had been perfect, 
Or if tainted with yellow the white. 

'Tis perfect — it could be no other, 
For nothing else would he bestow, 

Tho she treated him more as a brother, 
And counted him not as a beau. 

But now, as he called there that morning, 
It had taken her so by surprise, 

And she hadn't got even an inkling 

When he brought her that ring for a prize. 

She happens to think now 'tis curious, 
It all seems so sudden 'tis true, 

She had never thought marriage so serious, 
And there's very few girls that do. 

71 



Her life, it had all been so joyful, 
No clouds e'er had darkened her sight, 

But now for the first time she's mindful, 
She felt not the same there that night. 

No sleep e'er that night hath enwrapped her, 
As she lay there so restless in bed, 

For she feels that that ring on her finger 
Had some way affected her head. 

Her dreams were both startling and various, 
She felt that she was not the same, 

And it seemed to her even more curious 
That she was to change her own name. 

Tis but the commencement of sorrow, 
For joy does not come all alone, 

Twill bring its own troubles tomorrow, 
So her fate she had better bemoan. 




72 



"LAY ME IN MY LITTLE BED/' 

Lay me in my little bed, 

Put a pillow 'neath my head. 
That is what "Big Papa" said 
When I went to sleep. 

Lay me where I wont get cold, 

Do not slap or even scold, 
For I'm worth my weight in gold, 
So "Big Papa" said. 

Now I close my eyes and think, 

Everything is black as ink, 
And I cannot sleep a wink 
When I go to bed. 

I would like to stay and play 

As I have all thru the day, 
But I cannot have my way — 
I must go to bed. 



73 



MOTHERLESS CHILD. 

Oh Motherless Child, why comest thou here, 
To this world of sorrow and tears? 

With no one to cherish and comfort and care 
Thru thy tender and babyhood years. 

With no one to watch o'er thy toddling steps, 
Or guide thee lest thou go astray, 

No one to wipe off the tears which you wept, 
Or rejoice with you when you are gay. 

No one to soothe your throbbing young heart 
When you sigh as tho it would break, 

No one is ready to take up your part 
Nor palliate for your mistake. 

No one to condole with you in your grief 

Which childhood so keenly feel, 
No one to come and offer relief 

In your fancied troubles or real. 

No one to bathe your feverish brow 

When you lay in a bed of pain, 
No one to care for, or cherish you now, 

Or take you in out of the rain. 

No one to smooth your curly locks, 

Or plait your waving hair, 
No one to sing for you as you rock 

In your own little rocking chair. 

74 




MARY CECILIA GAUDIN 
(The Motherless Child) 



No one to give you the kiss of love, 
Or press you close to her heart, 

No one but thy mother in heaven above, 
But she from you had to part. 

No one to council you when you are grown 

And give you a mother's care, 
No one to cuddle and call you their own, 

Or sit you close down by her chair. 

Motherless Child, why comest thou here? 

Only God in His wisdom doth know. 
He left you and took your mother where 

There is peace, rest, and repose. 




75 




flPKHYAflft 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 

There is nothing greater than a mother's love, 

No greater love can be. 

We may extol the turtle dove 

With its plaintive notes and cooing love, 

But it can't compare with thee. 

No danger is too great to brave, 
No perils of the sea or land; 
She'd spend her life in a lonely cave 
Or go with joy into the grave 
With her babies, hand in hand. 

She takes her infant in her arm 
And presses it to her heart, 
And there she sees the greatest charm 
And keeps it safely from all harm 
With all a mother's art. 

Her eyes with love are teeming, 
Her smile is soft tho sad, 
While her babe is sweetly dreaming, 
And with joy her face is beaming 
As she commends her child to God. 

Her thoughts are of the future, 
Her hopes are fair and bright, 
And each coming ray she'd nurture 
As she draws his future picture, 
When she lays him down each night. 

78 



She blesses each coming morning 
As she lays him in his bed, 
And he looks, to her, so charming; 
But each symptom so alarming, 
It fills her soul with dread. 

Her love, it is eternal, 
It goes beyond the grave, 
For death it cannot cancel, 
Nor draw so close a mantle 
As to shut out its rays. 



s> 



79 



THE BABY'S CRY. 

Listen to the baby's cry, 
Hear her young heart throb; 

Ask of her the reason why 
And her little head she'll bob. 

Listen to her aching heart, 
How she'll sob and moan; 

Canst thou go and take her part? 
Or sorrow in thine own. 

See her little arms plead, 

Reaching out for succor; 
It would make a strong heart bleed 

To see the poor thing suffer. 

See the little baby lips, 
How they twitch and quiver, 

And how keen she feels her grief, 
The old ones can remember. 

See the big tears rolling fast 

Down her little cheeks, 
Soon her troubles will be past, 

And her little griefs. 

Your little troubles will soon be o'er, 
But big ones come instead, 

And as you grow you'll find it so, 
The truth of what I've said. 

80 



Love's Welcom 




Will she meet me at the door 
With her laughing eyes to greet me; 

As she often has before 

When she smiled on me so sweetly? 

Will she meet me at the door 
With the kiss that she is keeping, 

Tho she has got plenty more, 

But the first one is her greeting? 

Will she meet me when I come 
With her smiling expectation, 

For it is to her rare fun, 
And such pleasant recreation ? 

81 



With her snow white arms around 
My neck she was entwining, 

As I lift her from the ground 
To my shoulder there reclining. 

With what patience does she wait, 
And how great her disappointment 

If I happen to be late, 
Then she'd lose her whole enjoyment. 

Will she meet me at the door 

With her flower-decked little bonnet? 
She is three years and no more, 

As I write this little sonnet. 



<& 



82 



THE ORPHAN BOY. 

A wanderer in the world tonight, 

The orphan boy is left; 
No place of shelter is in sight 

Where he could take his rest. 

There is no friendly hand to guide, 

No softened voice to cheer, 
No willing ear which to confide 

The troubles he must bear. 

No one to wait his coming home 

And meet him at the door; 
No one to bind his bleeding sore, 

Or mend his clothes when tore. 

He's cast adrift upon the world 

Like Agar with her son, 
And knows not which way he should turn, 

Or whither he should run. 

No guiding angel to direct, 

To console or comfort him, 
And he is turned loose adrift, 

And there left, sink or swim. 

He's cast upon life's sea, alone, 

Like a ship without a rudder, 
With none to hear his sigh or moan 

Or treat him as a brother. 

83 




THE ORPHAN BOY. 



He walks the streets in tattered clothes, 

In hunger, want, and pain ; 
None to his rescue e'er arose 

Or help his frail life to sustain. 

In time he'll get to be a man, 

Tho he had no equal chance 
In life's race which he had to run, 

Tho he may yet win by perchance. 




85 



THE VACANT PARLOR. 

They met in the parlor, the young and the fair, 
Their musical voices was a pleasure to hear; 
Their features were radiant with beauty and health, 
But still for one absent some in silence had wept. 

Her chair was still vacant, her place was unfilled, 
Her piano was mute as none was like her skilled; 
For the voice, it was hushed which accompanied its tone 
And now it was left like a grave, all alone. 

There was no one could make it respond to his touch, 
And like the owner who played on its keys, it was 

hushed; 
And tho gaity and beauty encircled that room, 
But still o'er that party there settled a gloom. 

For the place that was vacant could never be filled 

In the hearts of her loved ones till their own had been 

stilled, 
And strangers had taken their places and they 
Had passed from this earth and were taken away. 



86 



GONE, GONE FOREVER. 

Gone, gone forever to the distant foreign land 

Where there is no grief nor sorrow and they play in 

silvery sand; 
Gone, gone forever on the road that knows no turn, 
Where they meet to part no more from this land of our 

sojourn. 

Gone, gone, the sound so lonesome long with a distant 

woebegone, 
Gone from the cares and sorrows to the world we belong; 
Gone to make new friendships where the sun, it never 

sets, 
And the soft dews of the morning, her fair cheek never 

wets. 

Gone from the darkness which surrounds us, to that 
land of distant wonder, 

And the fetters which here bound her are torn now 
asunder; 

Gone across the crystal waters where the shores are 
set with pearls 

And no danger can o'ertake her in those joy and bliss- 
ful realms. 

87 



Gone to the dark and dismal grave with a coffin and a 

shroud, 
No matter what we crave, with that we shall be bound; 
A few brief tears shed o'er our graves, or may a few 

short prayers, 
They pile up clay and leave us stay thru all the future 

years. 

Gone, gone; 'tis so hard to stay behind, it works upon 

our mind, 
To think she's gone, the dearest one that always was 

so kind; 
She's gone, but still her memory stays thru the long 

and dismal days, 
For to brighten up our lives, they are the only rays. 

Gone, gone, no more to meet until the sounding clarion — 
The few short years which were so sweet, but alas, they 

were not long; 
Gone, gone, and so it shall be sung, the same old song, 
And has nigh to six thousand years since the world 

first begun. 

Gone to that uncertain shore where we never were 

before, 
And the more we think makes our heart shrink, as we 

know not which's the door; 
Gone, gone forever, but we soon shall follow along, 
When we cross that distant river, then they'll sing the 

same old song. 



88 



"THOUGHTS." 

AT THE FUNERAL OF SISTER ADOLPHINE, 
SISTERS OF ST. MARY. 

She died and they buried her without ostentation, 
No flowery orations were preached at her grave; 

They prayed o'er her softly with quiet lamentation, 
And her coffin, tho plain, was neatly arrayed. 

She's gone from the field of her life's time devotion 
Where she devoted the years of her life to the care 

Of the youth she instructed in the way of salvation, 
As she knew that their souls to her God was most dear. 

She died in the quiet of her cell in the cloister, 
Surrounded by angels to bear her on high, 

There to rest near the throne of her God and Creator, 
For Whom she had lived that for Him she might die. 

She passed from this earth without sounding of horn, 
Altho 'twas the day that her battle was won, 

For to her on that day a new life was born, 
And a blessed eternity for her had begun. 

The world, already, she had left in spirit, 

And renounced all the joys that her station could give ; 

And now in the other she's receiving her merit, 
As she lived here to die and she died "There" to live. 

89 



"THE LORD HATH FOUND HER READY." 

SISTER FIDELIS, SISTERS OF ST. MARY. 

The Angel of God hath again been sent here 

To take a choice flower from the Garden He planted, 

That Garden where piety, patience, and prayer 
Was cultured with care and with humility watered. 

The Angel of Death whom God hath sent down 
To look o'er His Chosen and find the one ready, 

The one best prepared to receive a bright crown, 
And take to her Spouse her good works as a dowry. 

He found there a Lily of immaculate white 
Who had spent her young life in His service and 
glory, 

And sighed that her soul might depart in its flight 

To the Kingdom prepared for the meek and the lowly. 

She has taken her place with the White Robed who 
follow 
The Lamb in His Mansions where e'er He shall go, 
And to her now great joy hath replaced grief and sor- 
row, 
For we have God's own Words Who has said 'twould 
be so. 

How trivial now seems the honors she spurned, 
When compared with the visions of Celestial Bliss, 

No more does she think of the days she has mourned 
As in duty to God she had ne'er been remiss. 

90 



THE SILENT CITY. 

The Silent City where warriors bold 

Are resting now in silent sleep, 
And maidens fair with hair of gold 

Rest sweetly where the willows weep. 

Thru the long and silent hours of night 
They need no guard to watch their tomb; 

They're shut away from human sight, 
They rest amidst that awful gloom. 

Upon the trees where spreading limbs 
Which throw their shades o'er bodies moulding, 

The lone dove coos and the wild bird sings, 
And the wandering mind has a strange foreboding 

There the mocking bird so cheerly flits o'er head 
Upon the leafless branches of the trees, 

As he sings his notes so softly o'er the dead 
And opens wide his wings to catch the breeze. 

The Red-Bird in his plumage bright and gay 
Who wakes the stillness with his cheerful tune, 

As if he'd wish to while the lonely hours away 
Or dispel the sadness of that awful gloom. 

When the chilly breeze of autumn's blast 
Blows thru the trees with its dismal sound; 

And leaves that flourished thru the summer past 
Are thickly strewn upon the ground, 

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THE SILENT CITY. 
92 



Like the dead beneath their spreading limbs. 

They drop and fall to mix with clay 
And nourish there those trees that sends 

Forth shoots and leaves some future day. 

So those who now are laid away, 
Like seeds that's sown upon the ground, 

Must stay there till the Judgment Day, 
When they shall hear the bugle's sound. 

And come forth with a new-born life, 

That it takes on from the old form, 
Which, like the seed that once was ripe, 

Must die before the new is born. 

Beneath yon dome there lies a man 

Who while on earth his will was law, 
There is no one now beneath his ban 

Nor for his wishes cares a straw. 

Within the portals of these silent walls, 
Where many dear and silent treasures sleep, 

They answer not our sad and piteous calls, 

Whose graves we water with the tears we weep. 

Beneath that grassy mound incased with granite stone, 
Upon one corner stands a slender oak; 

Whose leafy branches shade the silent tomb 

Of children for whose death my heart nigh broke. 

And as I cast my glances from lot to lot 

I see my silent friends lay all around, 
From the white-haired sage to the smallest tot, 

I feel a reverence for that sacred ground. 

93 



There thru the long bright moonlight nights, 
Where towering pillars cast their shadows deep, 

So were the shadows cast upon our lives 

By death of those who now beneath them sleep. 

And when it comes the time that I must die 
I want to lay beneath those shady leaves, 

So all my friends who come and passeth by 
May know he is with those for whom he grieves. 



94 



THE QUEEN OF HEAVEN. 

Mary, Thou art the fairest Queen 
That heaven and earth hath known, 
The One who gaveth the only Being 
That doth proceed from the great Unseen 
To save this world of woe. 

Thou art the One thru the ages dim 
Who was promised here to man, 
That should fulfill the promise given 
And to mankind should open heaven 
Thru God, Your Christ and Son. 

Thou art the only human Creature 
That God hath kept from sin, 
For Thou wert destined before creation 
To take Thy part in man's salvation, 
And co-operate with Him. 

Thou art the Queen of many sorrows, 

As Thou stood there by His side, 

And Thou didst witness the horrors, 

And thine own heart was pierced with arrows, 

As Thou wast to be our guide. 

Thou art the Lily of the Valley, 
The fairest of them all, 
Who brought salvation unto many 
And 'neath Thy standard we shall rally, 
Lest we should slip and fall. 

95 



Thou art the One who ne'er refuses 
The prayers of us, below, 
And thru Thee, God, His Grace diffuses, 
And Thou dispense Them as Thou chooses, 
As it please Thee to bestow. 




THE MARTYR. 

The martyr, Oh what noble cause! 
Who'd die before he'd break God's laws, 
And who disdained all earthly pain 
Before his soul, with sin, he'd stain. 

The martyr, Oh what noble name ! 
Who none but Saints of God can claim, 
And who defied a tyrant's rage, 
Tho oft' of young and tender age. 

Whom wealth and station could not bribe 
Nor all the arts man could contrive 
To shake his faith or make him waver 
And deny Christ, his God and Savior. 

Some maidens, young and fair to see, 
Who scarce had left their mother's knee, 
Or Pancreatian Youths of noble race 
Who ne'er departed from God's Grace. 

And matrons who had spent their days 
In serving God with songs of praise, 
And patriarchs who, tho gray with age, 
Would never quail at tyrants' rage. 

They stood before the blazing fire, 
As if all had the same desire, 
Withstood the racks and piercing steel, 
As if they ne'er could see nor feel. 

97 



The mother saw the son she bore 
Exposed to lions to be tore, 
Or other beasts of equal rage 
Were loosened from an iron cage. 

He stood undaunted, lost in prayer, 
For the martyr's crown he was to wear; 
The mother saw each piercing dart 
And felt it quiver in her heart. 

And thus received a crown, like he, 
To wear for all eternity. 
With names too numerous to be told 
Were in the martyr's ranks enrolled. 

That such an army, and so great, 
Should suffer death to prove their faith, 
And with their dying words proclaim 
Their love for Jesus' Holy Name. 

No wonder that Christ's church hath praised 
Those martyrs whom the Lord hath raised, 
And placed their names upon her altars 
To be envoked as Holy Martyrs. 

No one could die a nobler cause 
Than when he dies to keep God's laws, 
For those who lose their lives for Thee 
Shall keep them thru eternity. 



98 



THE MARTYR'S CHILD. 

Oh what a noble heritage 

To be a martyr's child, 
As few have had such privilege 

That for God their fathers died. 
To know the same blood is running free 

Now thru their living veins, 
And are the selfsame flesh as he 

That with God in heaven reigns. 

To know his sacred lips kissed theirs 

Before his life was given, 
Before he left this vale of tears 

And went to God in heaven. 
To feel it in their minds, and know 

That he who gave his life 
Could save it here on earth below 

If he would pay the price. 

If he would stoop to barter 

His soul for earthly gain, 
He need not be a martyr, 

But then his soul he'd stain. 
The Jews felt it an honor, 

And they had often said, 
"We have Abraham for our father," 

Tho he had long been dead. 

99 



It was not so with the martyr's child, 

Whose father is with God, 
For 'twas prior to our redemption 

When the world still was sad. 
For Abraham had been waiting, 

Tho Abraham was just, 
And always pleasing to the Lord 

And in Him put his trust. 

For there was no admission 

To the vision of God's bliss, 
Before the Lord's ascension 

To eternal happiness. 
He had to await the coming 

Of Christ, to expiate 
The sin of Father Adam 

For the apple, he did ate. 

But Christ, after His passion 

Had opened to His own 
The sealed-up gates of heaven, 

For whose sins He did atone. 
But with the Holy Martyrs 

Who died for Jesus' sake, 
They went up straight to heaven 

And did not have to wait. 

So what a blessed heritage 

To be a martyr's child, 
To have a father up in heaven 

With Christ, for whom he died. 

100 



THE GARDEN OF EDEN. 

The Garden of Eden, that wonderful place, 
Which no one has ever as yet found a trace, 
It's lost in the vastness of earth's large domain 
As of it possession man could not retain. 

What beauty and grandeur first met Adam's eye, 
Before that the Serpent told Eve such a lie; 
But when once deceived, how sad was her fate 
To find that the Serpent had used such a bait. 

Poor Eve, she then found herself there estranged 
From the Garden of Eden as things had been changed; 
Tho her thoughts might revert to the bliss which she'd 

lost, 
But nevermore could she atone for the sins of the past. 

Such grandeur and beauty were obscured from her 

sight, 
But of things so long past it is late now to write; 
But still even now it affects us the same, 
Tho all that is left to us now is the name. 

The name and no more, for never shall man 
Re-enter those gates for he's under a ban; 
And Eve had to forage fhe best she knew how 
And Adam to plant without even a plow. 

101 



Their fate needs was sad but no one to revile, 
As they should only worry and work with the soil; 
But Oh, how their thoughts must often have strayed 
To that Garden which God in such beauty arrayed. 

Arrayed, but they lost it, tho 'twas their own fault, 
For they were there but on trial and they had to be 

taught 
That they were not entitled to its peaceful possession, 
As they never had earned from God such concession. 

Their loss, it was hard and as years had gone by 
They no doubt had heaved many a wearisome sigh; 
I feel it my privilege thus to write of their fate, 
As being one of their children I'm outside the Gate. 

But the world was large and they had plenty of room, 
And what they would raise there was none else to 

consume; 
And time, they had plenty, as 'twas nine hundred years 
In which to wash out their sins with toiling and tears. 

They may weep and lament but could not expiate 
The stain of that sin which they alone did create; 
'Twas for the Redeemer, some four thousand years, 
To wash out the stain from this valley of tears. 

Oh, Adam and Eve, if you could but retrieve 

The time that is past, you'd not leave Serpent deceive; 

But oft' when too late we find to our grief 

That the one we had trusted was liar and thief. 



102 



THE VALUE OF TIME. 

Oh, Time, which we are given for awhile, 
To work, to mourn, to struggle and to toil; 
To look into the distant future and prepare 
For that eventful Time that's coming near. 

To let our thoughts revert to Time that's past, 
And if perchance atone for what we've lost; 
To make the most of that within our power, 
That's passing from us quickly, hour by hour. 

To make for us some friends before we go, 
So when we leave we'll find some that we know; 
To lay up for ourselves some treasures there 
As for that journey we should now prepare. 

Alas, thou Time, most precious that we hold, 
Worth more than diamonds, rubies, emeralds or gold, 
And of its value now, no one can tell, 
As how we spend it here means heaven or hell. 

We have it in the morning when we rise, 
And when at night we rest to close our eyes; 
We have it when the day is at its close, 
But not as much as that same day when we arose. 

We wish to see it passing quickly by, 

Altho it means the sooner we shall die; 

It's but a feeble step that leads our soul 

From this, our pilgrimage, onto our destined goal. 

103 



It's given to us here while on probation, 
Upon the use of which depends our own salvation; 
The mountains and the seas may come and go, 
But Time that's lost none ever can bestow. 

Of Time's great worth, ask those who need it most, 
Ten minutes would have saved Napolean's host; 
Some seconds oft' have saved a thousand lives, 
Have caused the fall of nations or have made them rise. 

How often would five seconds Time suffice to save 
The wretch upon the brink of his own grave, 
Whose pardon flashed upon the wires that bore 
The welcome news that he should live a more. 

But as receiving keys responded to the sound 

The drop had fallen which lowered him to the ground; 

The sinner who, when death is drawing near, 

And when his heart begins to tremble with that fear 

Of the just judgment which awaits his soul, 
It's then he wishes for Time, in which to atone; 
The priest in haste is coming to his bed, 
Oh, will he find him living or is he dead? 

Is he still living to receive God's sacred rites 

For his soul's salvation while his taper lights, 

Or is repentance late and thus his soul is lost? 

Then Time for him is gone forever and his die is cast. 



104 



TODAY— BUT NOT TOMORROW. 

The day before tomorrow 
Is the only one well see, 

'Twill bring us joy or sorrow, 
Or whatever is to be, 

'Twill bring us peace or pleasure, 

Or maybe the reverse, 
We need look here for no other 

For we shall have none else, 

The day before tomorrow, 

It means only today, 
For time we cannot borrow, 

And neither can repay, 

For life tho passing quickly, 
And we abide the coming day, 

But well never see tomorrow — 
We've only got today. 

The sun may shine tomorrow 

With its luminary ray, 
But then 'twont be tomorrow, 

But it will be today. 

So 'twill be with futurity, 
When our life here shall be past 

And we pass on to eternity, 
Which will forever last. 

105 



Then it will not be tomorrow, 

Nor will it be today, 
For time is gone forever 

Where there is no night or day. 

Those who leave until tomorrow 
What should be done today, 

Will find it to their sorrow 
That they were led astray. 



106 



"TIME IS EVER CALLING US AWAY." 

A short time here to us is given, 

Which we should profit by, 
And lay up for ourselves in heaven 

Of good works, a supply. 

All time is short, as time we reckon, 

Not only as it flies, 
For in its flight it seems to beckon 

Could we but realize. 

Its flight is constantly moving, 

Moving on its way, 
And we should ever be improving 

For the little while we stay. 

It moves and we are moving with it, 

As with a mighty tide 
That's driven onward with the tempest, 

On which our frail barks ride. 

For life is ever ebbing, waning, 

Shortening as we know, 
Could we but stop we'd hear it hailing, 

Ever calling us to go. 



107 



THE END OF THE STORY. 

We've traveled together for many miles, 
We've seen roads rough and smooth, 

We've seen the frown, we've seen the smile 
From the gentle and the rude. 

We have gone together hand in hand 

In pleasure, grief, and pain; 
As we journeyed through some distant land 

Thru the sunshine and the rain. 

We've fought the bloody battles, 
We watched each weird scene, 

When the deadly bullets rattled, 

Where the fields, now red, were green. 

We've crossed some mighty oceans, 
Where the ships were lost at sea; 

As we often changed our notions 
In our ramblings, you and me. 

We heard the birds' sweet warbling 
As we strolled beneath the shade, 

And watched the young birds nestling 
In the nest the old had made. 

We have heard the brooklet's murmur 
As it wound its meandering way, 

While the rocks cleaved it asunder 
As it spread its sheathing spray. 

108 



We have heard the love words whispered 
When the evening shades were low; 

And the secrets that were uttered 
Which a lover longs to know. 

We have watched the children gambol 
As they skipped upon the green, 

From their cottage home so humble, 
Or the palace of a queen. 

We have seen the different climates 
Where the ice arid snow abound, 

Or the sunbeam of the tropics 
Where the deadly reptile's found. 

We have seen the gay rejoicing 
At the victories that were gained; 

And the mourning and lamenting 
For the dear ones that were slain. 

We have seen the guilty culprit, 
He, the author of our grief, 

Who was slain in mortal combat 
After social triumphs brief. 

We have seen the rocking cradle 
Where the baby writhed in pain, 

With the mother there unable 
To relieve its fevered brain. 

We have seen the dead and dying, 
As we traveled thru each stage, 

But after all we felt a sighing 
As we finished the last page. 

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plMWt~ 



THE END OF THE STORY. 
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